


How Many Eyes Before it Becomes Unsightly?

by SleepySelfLoathing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel and Demon True Forms (Good Omens), Aziraphale gets handsy in a literal sense, Body Horror, Crowley is an eldritch peacock, Established Relationship, Metaphysical Sex, Other, There is a disgusting cup of coffee, and stargazing, but like in a sexy way, halos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 09:33:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySelfLoathing/pseuds/SleepySelfLoathing
Summary: Aziraphale didn't expect an argument about cleaning up the bookshop to result in Crowley manifesting extra eyes, but he's certainly not going to complain about it.And why does the sight of it make Aziraphale feel so breathless?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 48
Kudos: 238
Collections: Weird Ethereal and/or Demonic and/or Supernatural Sex Shenanigans





	How Many Eyes Before it Becomes Unsightly?

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes you need to get back to your creative writing roots, and in my case, that means writing eldritch pornography. So join me, readers, as I spit on the grave of HP Lovecraft and write some loving, romantic sex between two celestial abominations.

There are few things in this world more invigorating than a good argument. Unfortunately, there are also few things more infuriating than a good argument, and it is between these two emotional extremes that Aziraphale finds himself trapped.

“And why can’t we just miracle the box down?” Crowley asks, crossing his arms.

“I’ve already told you five times before,” Aziraphale says with a huff, “I don’t remember what’s in there, and it might be too fragile for magic.”

The two of them have been standing in front of one of Aziraphale’s taller bookshelves for nearly twenty minutes now. Outside, the afternoon light is quickly fading. Inside, a cardboard box sits innocuously at the top of the shelf.

They have not made any progress in their argument whatsoever.

Crowley sighs. “Have you got any step stools?”

“And give my customers better access to the shelves?” Aziraphale scoffs. “I’m appalled you would even imply that.”

“Then we can use something else, like this,” says Crowley, grabbing one of the many reading chairs littered between the shelves.

“I can’t use that chair! It would dirty the cushion if I stood on it.”

“Angel, this thing is already ninety percent dust.” Crowley smacks the upholstery and a grey cloud puffs into the air. “It literally can’t get any worse.”

“Well, I still won’t let you stand on my furniture.”

Crowley throws his hands in air. “Fine! If you’re going to be a stubborn bastard about this, then you leave me no choice!”

And Aziraphale, who has engineered this whole situation in order to fulfil his fantasy of Crowley lifting him into the air like they’re on the cover of a romance paperback, tries very hard not to appear too eager.

But Crowley isn’t moving towards him. He’s staring down at his left hand with an intensity unseen outside of their shared meals. And as Aziraphale watches, one of the lines crossing his palm splits, the crease of skin pulling back to reveal a golden, snake-like eye.

Aziraphale stares, and the hand stares right back.

“Forgot how weird this felt,” Crowley says, “used to do this a bunch when I was a spy. Great for seeing around corners.” He cocks his head, smirking at Aziraphale. “Even better for dealing with petty angels.”

Aziraphale doesn’t respond. He’s still gazing at Crowley’s hand, at the familiar sight of a golden eye in a totally unfamiliar location. It’s mesmerising, a visible reminder that Crowley, for all his acting, isn’t as human as he appears.

Then Crowley moves his arm, raising his hand up so that it can see over the top of the bookshelf, and the eye disappears.

And why is that so disappointing?

“Mystery solved, it’s a bunch of daguerreotypes.” Crowley brings his hand back down, eyeless. “But why did you write the label in Mycenaean Linear B?”

Aziraphale is five steps behind this conversation. He’s still stuck on Crowley’s eye, the one that he’s never seen before.

The one Crowley’s never bothered to show him.

And that’s why, instead of answering Crowley’s question, Aziraphale responds with a non sequitur.

“I didn’t know you had any additional eyes. I thought it was something only angels possessed.”

If he’s thrown by the change in subject, Crowley doesn’t show it. “Weren’t you the one who pointed out that I used to be an angel?” He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to Aziraphale’s cheek. “Besides, I thought it was obvious after the apocalypse that we were never that different in the first place.”

“Oh, I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale says. That answer should satisfy him. It should. It’s an exact answer to the question he asked.

He’s not satisfied at all.

“Right. Well, now that we know what’s in that stupid box, let’s go get something to eat. Come on, angel,” Crowley says, already making his way towards the door as he twirls his useless car keys around his finger.

And Aziraphale, as he has done for millennia, pushes his feelings back down and follows someone else’s lead.

He resolves not to think about what he’s seen.

\---

But Aziraphale does think about it. He thinks about it all through dinner, too focused to pay attention to the tiramisu he orders for dessert. He thinks about it on the ride home, which distracts him from the threat of imminent death presented by Crowley’s driving.

Aziraphale is still thinking about it as he unlocks the bookshop. He’s thinking about it as he ushers Crowley inside. He’s thinking about it as he enters the foyer, wandering into the shop’s main floor without any idea of where he’s heading.

And perhaps if he were alone, he would be free to think about it for the rest of the evening. He could while away the whole night remembering the flash of gold across Crowley’s palm, the brief seconds he made eye contact with something he’d never seen before. Aziraphale could think about it for much longer than a night if he were alone.

But he’s not alone.

“You’ve been quiet all evening. What’s on your mind?” Crowley says, and Aziraphale nearly jumps. Goodness, he didn’t realise Crowley was still right beside him. He should be more present, be a better host than this.

“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m just lost in my thoughts. It’s not anything to be concerned about.” Aziraphale gives what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

“I wouldn’t say it’s nothing. You’ve got that sad wrinkle right there –” Crowley points between Aziraphale’s brows, “– which means you’re thinking way too hard. So, what’s going on in that headspace of yours?”

And Aziraphale can feel himself dithering as he tries to reply. He’s still not used to this new facet of his and Crowley’s relationship, the one where they can ask each other outright what they mean instead of wrapping themselves in layers of insinuation. He knows it’s a change for the better, but it’s still so new…

Aziraphale stands and fidgets and dithers. He makes no move to explain himself, and tries very hard not to feel like a coward.

Perhaps Crowley can see Aziraphale is struggling, because he slides past him and wanders deeper into the bookshop, disappearing somewhere near the back. His voice rises above the shelves, clear and loud.

“It’s fine if you want to stay quiet, but if you’re not going to talk now then let’s at least get drunk. Probably easier to say what’s on your mind when you’re completely sloshed, anyway,” Crowley says, emerging from the backroom with a bottle of something far too old and far too expensive to be carried around so casually. “What do you say, angel? Can I tempt you to a drink?”

This is familiar. It’s Crowley taking the first step, Crowley making a reasonable request that could lead to something more, Crowley building a space where Aziraphale can say yes, where no one could blame him for saying yes.

It’s familiar, and Aziraphale hates how easy it would be to accept.

Tonight, he’s feeling a little sick and tired of easy.

So Aziraphale digs his heels in, stubbornly fighting the grooves of tradition, forcing his mouth open and trying to outpace his thoughts.

“There will be no need for bribery. If… if you want to know, I can tell you right now.”

Crowley pauses. He places the wine bottle down on a shelf where it absolutely does not belong and gestures for Aziraphale to continue.

If Aziraphale doesn’t say this now, he knows he’ll lose his nerve, so instead of thinking at all he blurts out what’s been on his mind for hours.

“Could you do that thing with your hand once more? The one you did this afternoon?”

Crowley’s eyebrows rise above his sunglasses. “Huh, not what I was expecting. Why do you want to see that?”

“If you must know, it’s piqued my interest.” Aziraphale twists the ring on his finger. “I… I couldn’t stop recalling it, not since it happened.”

“Explains why you were so spacey at dinner. Never seen you neglect a dessert like that,” Crowley says, shrugging, “But, hey, if that’s what you want, ‘s easy enough to give. Just let me –” he snaps his fingers, and the blinds around the shop fall in front of the windows, blocking out the night. “There. Let’s do this.”

He stretches out his right hand, palm up and fingers extended.

And before Aziraphale has a chance to process it happening, a sliver of gold is splitting open across Crowley’s skin, bisected with a dark pupil.

“Want a closer look?” Crowley says.

Aziraphale takes one step further, and Crowley chuckles. “You can get closer than that, angel. It’s still just a hand. You can touch it if you want.”

Aziraphale reaches out, tentative even though he’s been given permission, and cradles Crowley’s hand with both of his.

From the centre of Crowley’s palm, a golden snake’s eye stares up at him.

Aziraphale is sure that if he were human, it would be horrifying to look at. To a human, this must seem unnatural and uncanny, the sort of thing that only exists in myth, in tales of monsters and nightmares.

But Aziraphale is not human, and he finds it devastatingly beautiful.

Drawn in, he looks closer.

There’s a strange dimension to Crowley’s eye. It looks like it’s wedged deeper into the skin than the width of his hand would allow, gazing up at Aziraphale from the end of a dark tunnel. It glows slightly, yet fails to illuminate the shallow, fleshy cave it’s nestled in.

“Why is it so far from the eyelid?” Aziraphale asks. Why is he so breathless? He doesn’t need to breathe.

Crowley tilts his head. “Well, it’s not an eyelid, is it? It’s a mouth. The eye’s at the back of the throat. Couldn’t do much talking with it at the front, it’s not practical.”

“You can speak with it?”

“Sure I can,” Crowley says, and it’s his voice but it’s rising from the mouth on his palm, the golden eye flashing into view between words. “I don’t know how the vocal cords connect, but I can still pronounce things just fine.”

“Then… these would be lips, not eyelids?” Aziraphale asks. His mind feels fuzzy, not all of him present as he says the words.

“Yup.”

“So,” Aziraphale says, drawing the hand upwards, “it wouldn’t be untoward if I did this?”

Despite the brazen confidence of his words, Aziraphale isn’t doing much thinking as he brings Crowley’s palm to his lips, and as a consequence the kiss starts out tentative. It’s an odd sensation, to say the least. The lips on Crowley’s hand are much thinner than the ones on his face, and when Aziraphale finds the boldness to venture further into Crowley’s mouth, he finds a rim of fangs, sharp enough to cut Aziraphale’s tongue.

It is quite possibly the most exhilarating kiss of his long, long life.

Even though Aziraphale does pulls back eventually, he keeps Crowley’s hand clutched in his.

“Do you have any more eyes, dearest?” he asks, feeling braver.

Crowley is silent for a moment, his face slack, but then he shakes himself and starts rambling. “Sure, sure. Got loads of them. Right bucketfuls of eyes. Got as many eyes as I do mouths, and I’ve got heaps of those –”

“Can I see them?” Aziraphale interrupts, too eager to cover up the excitement in his voice and too excited to hide his eagerness on his face.

But Aziraphale can see Crowley hesitate, looking away from him as he fails to stuff his free hand into his pocket. “Not sure you’d like seeing them all,” he says, “Some’re blind, too much scarring. It’s not nice to look at.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I find it difficult to believe that looking at any part of you would be arduous for me.”

And, just to make sure Crowley says yes, Aziraphale leans forward, holds Crowley’s hand to his chest, and opens his eyes wide.

It’s a bit unfair, but as expected, Crowley crumbles immediately.

“Fine, fine, no need to butter me up, I’ll bring them out. Just need a bigger canvas, is all.”

He lightly tugs his hand from Aziraphale’s grip, shuffles a few steps backwards, and takes off his sunglasses.

He closes the eyes on his face.

Then all the light drains from Crowley’s appearance.

Aziraphale can’t hold back a gasp.

Crowley’s… body? is difficult to describe. It looks like someone took a pair of scissors to the fabric of reality, cutting out the sharp silhouette of a human and forgetting to fill the space with anything in return. There’s no texture to Crowley’s form at all, and if it weren’t for the golden eyes splashed across him, there probably wouldn’t be any sense of depth either.

Well, there’s not just eyes. Crowley’s grinning, and that means he’s covered in teeth as well.

Aziraphale shouldn’t find that nearly as attractive as he does.

But it seems Crowley’s not quite done, because bleeding out behind him are his wings, dripping into reality like ink through water. They’re covered in enough eyes to put a peacock to shame, a comparison helped by the way Crowley draws them up and out, clearly showing off.

Some of the eyes are bisected with thin silver lines. Some of them are so scarred they’re completely white, stark against the absolute blackness they rest in.

It’s like a slice of the night sky has decided to fall into the bookshop.

Aziraphale can do nothing except stand and stare. He’s never seen Crowley like this, stripped of even the smallest pretence of human form, pared down to the eldritch base of himself.

And he did it all because Aziraphale _asked_.

Is Aziraphale blushing? He doesn’t know, he feels lightheaded, but that might just be because of the sucker punch Crowley’s body just gave the fabric of reality.

Smiles bloom across the space that used to be Crowley’s chest. “I’m not a painting, angel. You can look _and_ touch.”

Well, that answers the previous question. Aziraphale is definitely blushing, and he might be swooning now too, he isn’t sure.

But that’s not important right now, because right now he’s about to touch Crowley.

As Aziraphale steps forward, he notices that the change in perspective doesn’t provide any extra depth to Crowley’s body. Despite his clean silhouette, it’s difficult to tell exactly where his body begins when approaching him from the front.

At least, that’s the excuse Aziraphale tells himself as he accidentally walks right into Crowley.

And, yes, into is the correct term, because Aziraphale is suddenly immersed in a thick, shadowy miasma, chilling him to the core and raising the hair on his arms. He can’t breathe, he can’t see, the whole of him enveloped in a dense void, darkness pressing into him from all sides.

But only for a moment.

The darkness leaves as quickly as it came, and Aziraphale is swamped with light, his lungs flooding with air and body burning from the change in temperature.

There’s also a voice, and as Aziraphale’s eyes adjust, he can see the shadow in front of him speak.

“Wow, ok, ok, I’m just gonna back up,” Crowley says. His voice, coming from a single mouth on his shoulder, is shaky, and the lines of his body momentarily blur. “Alright, that might have been too much too fast, let’s pause a sec, ok?”

Aziraphale would respond, but he’s shivering too hard to open his jaw. Tingles of cold rush up and down his spine and the phantom pressure of Crowley’s body lingers on his skin

“Oh, bless it, angel, did I give you hypothermia?” Crowley says. “I guess human bodies don’t react well to anything measured in kelvins. Let me fix that.”

There’s a snapping noise and Aziraphale’s body is warm again, but all he can feel is loss. He’s never been touched with the same severity as the pressing void of Crowley’s body, never been held so close, so near.

The cold vanishes, and with it leaves the lingering sensation of that all-encompassing embrace.

Across from him, Crowley’s outline fades slightly, the shadows of his wings drooping. “Didn’t know you’d react that badly. We can stop now –”

“No!” Aziraphale shouts. He didn’t plan for it to come out so loud, but he barrels on. “We’re not stopping. I just need to make a quick change.”

The eyes on Crowley’s face narrow. It’s surprising how sceptical he can look when he has no facial muscles.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s said to warrant that look. After all, Crowley’s not the only one with a metaphysical secret tucked away.

Deciding that it would be easier to show than explain, Aziraphale slides past the bookshelves, careful not to go anywhere close to Crowley’s body as he makes his way to the backroom’s sofa. Behind him, Crowley makes a scoffing noise that echoes down his torso.

“If you’re planning on taking me up on my offer for a drink, I don’t think liquid courage will help you with what I’ve got going on.”

Instead of answering, Aziraphale removes his overcoat, folding it into nice and accurate squares before setting it down on the coffee table. It wouldn’t do to have it damaged by what’s about to happen.

“I don’t think stripping will do much either,” Crowley says.

Calling on an angelic supply of patience, Aziraphale does not sigh. What he does instead is take a seat on the sofa, right in the middle with plenty of space on either side.

He concentrates, lets his shoulders tense up, and then relax.

And he lets a piece of his true self manifest.

Aziraphale’s hundred arms unfold like the pages of a book, dripping with ink and comprised of molten copper. The metal seeps between the scrolls of vellum wrapped around it, and he spares a brief thought for the sofa, hoping it won’t be too badly stained by the runoff metal.

When he looks up, all of Crowley’s eyes are wide open.

“That’s a lot of hands,” He says.

“Astute observation, dear,” Aziraphale says. “Now, would you like to make any other smart remarks, or, since there’s no more danger, would you rather come closer?”

He’s answered with a lapful of shadows. This close, it’s impossible to see where Crowley’s arms end and where the rest of him starts, which isn’t helped at all by way Crowley’s wings blot out any vestiges of light as they wrap around the two of them. Aziraphale reaches out a few dozen arms to hold them back, and in doing so accidentally hooks some of his fingers into one of Crowley’s mouths.

To his surprise, Crowley’s fangs sink into the ink-spattered metal of his fingers.

It’s not painful, but the sensation of his metal being pierced brings with it the strange feeling of having his body displaced, shoved aside to make room for something new, something foreign, something _sharp_.

He can feel his copper slowly spread over Crowley’s tongue. He watches as his ink oozes over Crowley’s teeth. He stares as Crowley’s mouth opens, letting the metal and ink spill over his lips and revealing the golden eye trapped at the back of his throat.

Then Aziraphale’s hand is being withdrawn. One of Crowley’s hands wraps around his wrist, pulling it back even as Aziraphale’s other arms continue pawing at Crowley’s body.

“Not that I wasn’t enjoying that,” Crowley says, the mouth on his neck speaking softly, “but that’s something we could get lost in, and there’s a lot more to explore, if you’re interested.”

Aziraphale drags his hands along Crowley’s back, the vellum catching on his fangs. “Well, if you don’t want me poking about, then where do you suggest I touch?”

Crowley is still for a moment.

And then the space behind his head begins to glow, an infernal pressure soaks into the room, and Aziraphale’s eyes open wide.

Because Crowley just manifested his halo.

His halo is not whole. It’s still circular, but the interior and upper lip are gone, leaving behind a punched-out, incomplete disc of hot red light, ringed by a constellation of shards suspended in the space around it. Framing the shadows of his head with its glow, the halo almost looks like a demonic pair of horns.

Aziraphale is reaching for it before he has time to think.

“Do you –” Crowley says, but cuts himself off with a chorus of surprised noises coming from multiple mouths as Aziraphale’s coppery hands wrap around the rim.

“What was that, dear?” Aziraphale says. Crowley responds with a garbled mess of consonants, and Aziraphale takes it as permission to continue.

And continue he does. He grabs at the fragments dangling in the air, tugging them, trying to dislodge them from their fixed position and forcing Crowley’s head to move in tiny jerks. Aziraphale’s other hands cup Crowley’s jaw, mindful of the delicate eyes resting there, caressing and bracing Crowley’s head in equal parts as Aziraphale grips at his halo.

Crowley doesn’t stop him. He wiggles on Aziraphale’s lap. He pants out of his many mouths. He wraps his own two arms around Aziraphale’s neck, drawing him closer.

But he doesn’t even try to stop him.

Emboldened, Aziraphale extends a single finger to trail along the halo’s inner contour, letting the jagged edge slice into him and leaving a bloody trail of molten metal in his wake. Aziraphale can feel a thin line of heat burrowing into his hand as he moves, exquisite even as it aches.

By the time he reaches the pointy tip of the halo, his finger has nearly boiled away and the halo itself is smeared with melted copper and bubbles of ink.

It looks like nothing he’s ever seen.

Aziraphale pulls back to admire his work, and he’s so caught up in the euphoria of what’s he’s done that he barely notices Crowley listing to the side. At least, not until Crowley crumples into a heap on the sofa.

“Oh no! Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale says. He extends half of his arms to pull Crowley closer, trying to gaze into the abyss of his body in hopes of seeing what’s wrong.

One of the mouths on Crowley’s face opens and shuts, revealing a glassy white eye but making no sound.

“Darling, are you injured?” Aziraphale’s starting to get really worried, the kind of worried that creeps into his chest and digs into his lungs. “Please tell me I haven’t hurt you!”

At this, Crowley stirs. Aziraphale has so many hands wrapped around him it’s hard to miss, but he’s grateful all the same as Crowley’s wings finally move, wrapping around the two of them once more.

Crowley exhales in a motion that shakes his entire frame.

“That was…” Crowley wheezes, “…the best fucking orgasm I’ve ever had.”

Aziraphale resists the urge to shove him off his lap, but only just. “Don’t be crude! I was genuinely concerned that I had done something awful to you.”

“Yeah, sorry, I went offline a little there. But in my defence, its not like I’ve ever enjoyed orgasms with my human body, so it was a bit…”

“Overwhelming?”

The eyes along Crowley’s wings scrunch up. “Let’s say intense. ‘Overwhelming’ is for repressed Victorian aristocrats who just saw their first ankle. This was something else.”

“Whatever you say, dear,” Aziraphale says, as he strokes a hand along where he thinks Crowley’s arm is. “I’m just grateful that I didn’t cause you any harm.”

“Oh no, no harm. I’d say that was the opposite of harm. Actually, if you want…” Crowley’s smiles turn devious. “Pull out your halo and I’ll ssshow you what I mean.”

“Oh my.” Aziraphale says. He hasn’t revealed his halo in at least a century, not since he had a spat of blessings during the days of the fin-de-siècle.

He’s certainly never showed Crowley.

But they’ve already broken so far from tradition tonight, there’s no reason not to go further.

Aziraphale stretches a few sets of arms up, forming a ring around his head to mark out the space his halo will occupy. If he’s going to be doing this, then he’ll do it properly.

He closes his eyes.

He breathes in.

And as he exhales, as his eyelids move up, he can feel the radiant heat behind him rise into reality like the coming dawn. The light pouring off his newly formed halo doesn’t permeate any of Crowley’s void-like body, but it does reflect off his eyes and teeth, making them shine like stars.

Aziraphale inclines his head forward, granting permission to touch.

And Crowley takes it.

Crowley reaches up, every eye intent on the disc resting behind Aziraphale’s head. He grasps at it and a wave of cool sensation trickles down Aziraphale’s body, permeating every atom of his being and rendering him limp in Crowley’s touch.

But Crowley doesn’t stop there. The mouths on his hands kiss their way along the edge of the light, occasionally extending their fangs to nip at the particles and waves caught in their grip. Aziraphale feels their intimate journey around the rim of his halo, feels them touch the immaterial substance of his grace, and he shudders from the glorious pleasure of it all.

“Like that, do you?” Crowley says, and when Aziraphale croaks in response Crowley leans in, the appendage that used to be his head nuzzling against Aziraphale’s face. “I can do you one better.”

Aziraphale twitches as the mouths on his halo shift into smirks, teeth sharpened to serpentine points. Crowley’s palms open, dragging their teeth along the edge, and without any warning, the fangs bite down, piercing the disc with sharp, gouging pricks of ecstasy. They tug at the light in playful little jerks, and Aziraphale tries to hold back a very human moan. And then –

And then the halo shifts.

Just minutely, but Aziraphale seizes Crowley’s shoulders, ripping his mouths and hands from the light and nearly shoving him off his lap. Perhaps it’s an overreaction, but Aziraphale has never felt his grace move like that, not in his entire life.

He’s unable and unwilling to process how _good_ it felt.

So instead Aziraphale extends more arms, clutching all along Crowley’s torso, pushing and pulling at his body until he’s pinned below him on the sofa. Crowley doesn’t try to struggle. His mouths twist into teasing smiles even as Aziraphale’s fingers dig into his not-quite-real skin.

Well, if Crowley thinks that this is the worst Aziraphale can deal out, then he’s sorely mistaken. If anything, Aziraphale is about to deal out the best of himself, and there’s no defence against that.

Though Aziraphale doubts Crowley would defend himself even if he could.

And with that thought, he lets the last of his human form unspool.

The flesh of Aziraphale’s face peels back in luminous, feathery sheets, unveiling the singular, blazing eye dwelling at the core of him. The blue-bright flames of his iris lick at the feathers surrounding it, untamed and raw like the fire of his old sword, pulsing in brilliant, awful bursts of light.

And Aziraphale looks. He gazes. He peers, he stares, he sees everything, everything physical and metaphysical, real and untrue, his vision divine and his sight unparalleled.

But really, Aziraphale is only looking at Crowley.

Crowley, held below him, pinned by molten arms and gazing up at Aziraphale with his own, half-lidded eyes. Crowley, beautiful and terrible to behold, the dark void of his body inviting Aziraphale’s light to join it, flashing his fangs like some sort of inhuman coquette.

But Aziraphale is greedy. He wants more. He’s always wanted more, spent millennia repressing and denying himself more comfort, more freedom, more of _Crowley_ –

So Aziraphale lets himself take.

His eye takes in the whole of Crowley’s form, looking with the full force of his divinity. He can see the sharp lines of Crowley’s smiles, the negative space encompassing his body, the faint glow of his yellow eyes. He stares into the crevasses between Crowley’s atoms, dissecting the infernal energies that pulse throughout his body. His sight plunges into the immaterial, ephemeral substance that lets Crowley move, live, _exist_ –

Aziraphale looks, he takes in everything Crowley could possibly possess.

And what is truly incredible is that Crowley lets him.

He lets Aziraphale look at him with the ferocity of a divine being, lies beneath him as he is scrutinised in his entirety. The only movement he makes is to slither one arm out of Aziraphale’s grip, reaching up to clutch at Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“Stay with me, angel,” whispers the mouth on his wrist. “I’ll give you everything, jussst ssstay…”

And it’s all Aziraphale wants. He wants shared lunches at fancy restaurants. He wants to ramble together along park pathways. He wants quiet evenings here at the bookshop with the two of them resting, safe, warm, and close, here in this place he’s carved out. 

He wants everything Crowley has to give, and more than anything, he wants Crowley to stay.

The fire of Aziraphale’s eye glows gold at the revelation.

Aziraphale gazes down at Crowley, letting the flames of his love burn bright as he stares.

And every mouth on Crowley’s body beams.

Then Crowley’s sharp silhouette bursts, freeing the void from the confines of his body and pouring into the space around them.

And Aziraphale can see nothing but darkness.

The void stretches above, below, around him, pressing into his inhuman body, caressing the golden light of his flames and holding him close.

It’s completely black. There’s nothing to see here beside him, and even with the void’s embrace, Aziraphale wants something more.

Aziraphale tries to look, to stare, to behold.

He wants to see Crowley.

Suddenly, he does see something, a flash of gold in the distance, unmistakably eye shaped. Aziraphale can feel himself burn brighter. He wants to illuminate, to see –

Another eye blinks open in the dark space before him.

And another.

And another –

And more, and more, and more, gold and white and glowing, each eye staring back at Aziraphale in the darkness, painting the void with dots of light that seem so familiar, that Aziraphale realises he’s seen before, he’s seen it every time he’s looked up at the night sky –

A galaxy of Crowley’s eyes stare back at him, painting the vast expanse of space with his admiration, with his devotion, with his sweet, besotted gaze.

Aziraphale is loved with the celestial intensity of an eldritch being.

Aziraphale is loved by one golden-eyed demon.

And Aziraphale, no less celestial or eldritch himself, looks back, single eyed and singular, loving as fiercely and gently as he knows, making eye contact with the universe unfurling before him.

Trapped in the infinity of Crowley’s affections, Aziraphale loses himself.

God herself couldn’t imagine anything more divine than this.

…

…

…

The first thing Aziraphale hears is the thumping of his heart.

His human heart.

The pounding beat of blood pulsing in and out of his ventricles and atriums. The unceasing rhythm of his muscles expanding and contracting. These sounds are deafening. They’re the only thing he can hear.

Aziraphale clings to it. Lets the regular beating of his heart bring him back to his body.

His human body.

Slowly, his heartbeat grows less loud, and Aziraphale can hear a new sound. The rushing gasp of air forcing its way in and out of his lungs is much louder than his heart was, and Aziraphale can feel the stretch of his ribcage as his chest heaves.

He also feels blunt points of pressure against his back.

It takes him a long moment to recognise this pressure as hands.

It takes him even longer to realise his own hands are trapped beneath him, wedged between a soft, cushioned surface and a warm, stiff fabric.

And the fabric is heaving with its own laboured gasps.

Now that his awareness has extended beyond his own body, Aziraphale finds it a bit easier to situate himself spatially. He can identify that he is on his sofa. He can remember that he is in his bookshop.

And he realises that he is lying on top of Crowley, the two of them hugging each other achingly close as they learn how to breathe like humans again.

Aziraphale finds it’s not a bad place to be.

So he breathes. He stays. He clutches at Crowley, and eventually, in an age, in a minute, their panting slows, smoothing out into something more regular, more familiar.

And still Aziraphale doesn’t move. Crowley’s hands cling to the seams of his coat, gentle even as they try to pull him closer. It’s a precious reminder that Aziraphale is something dear and cherished, something worth wanting and keeping.

It gives him the strength to try and open his eyes.

He wants to see, not with the gaze of an angel, but with the sight of a human.

He wants to see Crowley. 

Opening his eyelids is easier than he would have thought, probably because the bookshop is still dark with the shadows of early morning, but Aziraphale isn’t focused on his surroundings.

He’s focused on the dear face resting below him.

Crowley’s eyes, the only two he has on his human face, are closed. But as Aziraphale drinks in the sight of him, his eyelids open, just halfway.

And, really, Crowley has no right to look that sweet. There must be some sort of law against him looking at Aziraphale like that, with his eyes half-lidded, his gaze soft and loving.

Aziraphale breaks away and hides his face against Crowley’s chest. It might hide him from Crowley’s sight, but it doesn’t protect him from the chuckle he feels rumbling under his cheek.

Honestly, Aziraphale has no choice but to try and hold Crowley closer. No choice at all.

They lie there together as the light changes, as the dawn begins chasing away the darkness of the night, painting the bookshop with pale shades of sunlight that surely don’t belong in London’s sky.

Aziraphale lets his body rest, lets his heartbeat match the one he can hear under his face, lets his breaths come slow and deep as the chest below him rises and falls.

He lets himself rest with Crowley in the most human way he knows.

But the silence can’t last forever.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley says. His voice is surprisingly quiet given how close he is.

“Yes?”

“Does this mean you’ve known me biblically?”

And somehow, Aziraphale finds the strength to wrench an arm away from Crowley, pick up one of the throw pillows that have fallen onto the floor, and smack it on Crowley’s face.

\---

Later that morning, after the two of them have wrapped themselves fully in the embrace of their human bodies, they go out for brunch.

They’ve settled into a table for two at a small café, separated from the swarm of people moving throughout the city only by the glass of the storefront window. Their server keeps shooting them concerned glances, but that’s probably because Crowley’s spent the last three minutes opening sugar packets and dumping them into his ninth cup of coffee.

“How long do you think until she calls an ambulance?” Crowley asks, stirring his drink. Aziraphale is positive that the only reason it’s still a liquid is infernal magic.

“Well, I’d thought she’d have called one after the eighth cup, so I’m really not sure,” Aziraphale says. Crowley hums and reaches for another sugar packet, realises they’ve run out, and picks up the saltshaker instead.

Electing to ignore the disaster brewing in front of him, Aziraphale finishes off his fifth blueberry muffin and miraculously finds a misplaced newspaper right beneath his plate. Somewhere outside, a businessman finds himself empty handed and denied the satisfaction of a completed crossword puzzle.

(But that’s hardly Aziraphale’s problem now, is it?)

As Crowley starts unscrewing the saltshaker lid, Aziraphale flips the newspaper over and pauses. He reads the headline once, reads it again, and feels a tremulous smile spread across his face. He reaches across the table to grab at Crowley’s wrist.

“Darling, darling, look at this!”

Aziraphale holds the newspaper up so Crowley can see the photo printed across the front page. It’s a shot of London’s skyline at night, but instead of a dark, blank void resting above the buildings, the sky is alive with thousands of shining lights.

“It seems that last night, all the light pollution above London vanished! For the first time in centuries, the sky was clear enough to see all the stars,” Aziraphale says, unable to keep the delight out of his voice.

Crowley turns an unflattering shade of pink from the base of his sunglasses to the top of his low-cut shirt. “Er, didn’t think we were that demonstrative.” He glances out the window. “Any human theories about why it happened?”

“According to this,” Aziraphale says, pulling back the newspaper to glance at the writing, “nobody knows what caused it. It seems to have caused a fair bit of panic amongst the public.”

Crowley’s blush starts to fade as a grin stretches across his face. “And I bet some humans thought it was the most incredible thing they’d ever seen.”

“Then I suppose the effects balanced themselves out,” Aziraphale says. His smile turns soft. “They do seem to do that when we work together.”

Crowley hums in agreement. “I know we couldn’t have seen it because of… reasons, but I would’ve liked to go stargazing with you.” He lifts his mug. “Not often you get a clear shot at the sky like that.”

And, because Aziraphale is just a bit of a bastard, he waits until Crowley takes a swig of his horrifying coffee before saying, “Oh dearest, you already had me seeing stars last night.”

The newspaper makes for an excellent shield against the liquid Crowley spits out as he chokes. His sputtering is making a mess of their table, and their server rushes over, thumping Crowley on the back and offering him napkins all while wearing the most vindicated expression Aziraphale has ever seen on a human face.

“You really should be more careful about what you put in your mouth, my dear,” Aziraphale says, his tone too smug to miss.

Crowley glares at him as he shoos away their far-too-pleased server, and Aziraphale reaches for his hand. Conscious of Crowley’s gaze, he brings it to his lips and presses a gentle kiss to his palm.

“Bastard.” Crowley mutters.

“Always.” Aziraphale beams.

And if it sounds a bit like _I love you_ , then that’s something only the two of them need to know.

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this story was "Big Eldritch Sexy" and I hope I delivered on that. 
> 
> I'd like to give a special thank you to my mom, who proofed this fic, and to my sister, who not only let me read this aloud as I was proofing it, but is also the only person willing to discuss the inherent romanticism of big spooky monsters with me. 
> 
> If you enjoyed the story, please give it a kudos or a comment. I cherish each one like Aziraphale cherishes Crowley's many, many eyes.


End file.
